


In his own person

by chocolatekiller (melonbutterfly)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-06
Updated: 2009-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/chocolatekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leira, working for Torchwood Six, finds a room full of pictures, full of someone she doesn't know; though from the way Jack looks at him, she wishes she had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In his own person

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a quote by Oscar Wilde: "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

When Leira first came to Torchwood, she didn't wonder about it; everything about Jack was strange and exciting and he generally lived in different parameters than the usual human. He was immortal, for heaven's sake! Not sleeping certainly wasn't anything to rack your brain over. His constant flirting was a little exasperating at times, but one got used to it—and honestly, Jack was great in bed. At first she had wondered whether it was ethical to sleep with your boss, but everybody and their brother seemed to be doing it (or at least wanted to), so it was alright.

But when she had been working for Torchwood Six for a year, she thought differently.

Jack cared about them, she knew that; every one of them knew that, in his own way, he loved them. But there was always a distance; not the usual, big one of him knowing a whole lot more than he let on, not emotionally, but… different. She didn't quite know the words to describe it, but she felt it; there was something. It wasn't anything that interfered, so she didn't think about it often, but sometimes…

And then she found his bedroom.

At first she hadn't realised what the room she was standing in was; bedroom wasn't exactly the right description, though an accurate one. For that room had a bed. On that bed, there was a blanket and a pillow, all white; it looked clinical, somehow, but not cold. That was all that was in the room, and she imagined that she wasn't the first one to enter that one; it was down in the archives and people usually only went down there to find or store something, and they'd probably open the door, realise what they were looking for wasn't there—for the bed was the only thing in the room—and would close the door again, never to think about the room again. Had she been looking for something, she certainly would have fared the same way and never wondered. But this was different; Simon, one of her colleagues, had just died and she needed something to occupy her mind. The archives were mainly more or less organised, but she had hoped to maybe find a room that wasn't, though she supposed there wasn't one anyway.

So, she looked at the bed and made two steps into the room, for no reason. She looked left and right, but there wasn't anything to look at, to distract her; with any attention to maybe go snoop around in the archives, even though Jack had clearly not have allowed that, she turned around and- froze. Because there were pictures on the wall the door was in; the whole wall was covered with frameless photos on photobase paper, overlapping each other like a mosaic of life.

It was clear whose room this was, now. And even though she knew she shouldn't, that she should just leave and not intrude into something that certainly wasn't her business, she didn't. Instead, she stepped closer and looked at the pictures. Some of them were old, really old; yellowed and blurry. Others were newer, maybe only ten years old; on a few, she even recognised some people she knew had worked here directly before she had. There were also a few pictures of places; streets and houses, a beach, older Torchwoods that had been destroyed and/or reconstructed. A bunch of trees; not quite a forest. A streetlamp.

And a person. Sure, there were many people, but one that appeared over and over again; from the hundreds of pictures, at least a third was of him. Few of them were staged, most of them looked like they had been taken out of the security tapes, or at least that was what she guessed. That man, over and over again; eating, talking, laughing, smiling, sleeping, staring into nothing, working, but also anger, tears, sneers. Just from looking at all the pictures, she felt like she knew him. She could certainly guess what he meant to Jack, even before she found that special corner; a couple of pictures with him and Jack, together. Together together. Kissing, holding hands, sitting on each other's laps, leaning into each other, sometimes just standing together; and sleeping. These pictures had been taken like photos usually were taken; by a camera, digital from what the quality looked like, and only spanned a short time; she could tell because the man's age didn't change. That, and the fact that Jack was sleeping—literally—stroke her immediately. It was a wide-known fact that Jack didn't sleep, and yet it was clear that at some point, he had.

"That's Ianto," a voice came from outside, and she jumped. Jack wasn't standing in the door, but she knew she had been caught. She wanted to apologise for snooping; she wanted to tell him she hadn't meant to, but when she opened her mouth, her voice wouldn't come. Sure, she—all of them—had known that it had to be hard on Jack, no matter that he didn't show it, to be immortal. To lose people all the time; to know when he met somebody he'd see them die, one way or another. But knowing and _knowing_ were two entirely different matters.

Jack's steps were loud in the total stillness of the archive; she didn't know why she hadn't heard him before. He appeared in the door, face solemn, but still the same—only now she realised it wasn't the same face that man on the photos had known. There was a shadow under his skin, a layer of something that made her tear up, now that she knew it was there. Someone who hadn't known the old Jack, the other Jack who was on the photos with that man, wouldn't notice; the same way that people that saw a copper statue when it was old and green wouldn't notice the difference, the way it had looked when it had been new, unless they saw pictures or were told by someone who had known both statues; the new, shiny, coppery one and the old, blackish green one.

And Jack knew that now that she had seen both sides, she wouldn't forget; and yet he didn't look at her differently, not with anger that she had invaded his privacy that she hadn't even been aware he had had.

She cleared her throat and repeated hesitatingly, hoarsely, "I-Ianto?"

Jack made two steps into the room and turned his head to look at the photos; the way he did it made her think that he had done it many times before, this exact movements; his eyes seemed to immediately find one picture. It wasn't an especially pretty one; in fact there others where that man—Ianto—looked more handsome, but it was a real picture. With a start, Leira realised that this was probably the way Ianto had looked most of the time; his expression was slightly tense and he was looking beyond the photographer—for this was a real photo, not a fixed image from a tape—at somebody or something else. There was no smile on his face, but there was a warmth in it; suddenly, strangely, Leira found herself wishing he was looking at Jack, or a picture of Jack, or at least thinking of Jack. Somehow, in the face of the extent of the emotion Jack had felt for that man, she fiercely wished that this feelings had been returned; that, if Ianto had been in Jack's place, she'd now find herself staring at a wall of pictures full of Jack, and love.

"Ianto Jones." He didn't seem to intend to elaborate further, maybe explain who he was, but Leira realised it wasn't important anyway. All that mattered was on this wall, and in Jack's face.

"He… you…", she started, but paused and reconsidered. Then she said, "I thought you couldn't sleep."

Jack turned his head to look at her that way of his; on any other person, it would have looked wary, suspicious. "It's just that I don't. I am able to, but it's not necessary."

And that probably said it all.

Leira nodded quickly, swallowed and quickly ran out of the room, brushing past Jack. Hours later he looked at her and her eyes were red and they both pretended it was because of Simon.


End file.
